"Every soul craves to be seen.  Approach not as a force, but as a flicker of intrigue.  A well-placed glance, a word that lingers— these are the sparks that set the kindling ablaze.  A soul untouched by darkness must first be made to notice the shadow."

-Excerpt from The Infernal Guidebook: The Art of Unraveling a Soul

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Writing in cafes has always given me just the right balance of feeling social enough to be content, yet still wrapped in the comfort of solitude. Local spots usually have my heart, but for now, I'm letting myself settle into the familiarity of Starbucks. It's a small comfort amid the unfamiliar streets outside where neon lights blur through raindrops on the window, a constant reminder that I'm definitely "not in Kansas anymore."

I'm just about lost in my writing as I work through the next scene in my story. Around me, the cafe is filled but not crowded with a mix of students, couples, and the occasional passerby ducking in from the rain.

Then, without warning, that sense of being watched creeps in. I glance up, but nothing seems off at first. A few people scroll through their phones while others are buried in books. But across the café, someone catches my eye.

A man sits alone at a table by the window. He's striking, the kind of handsome that feels almost unreal, and the kind of demeanor that tells me he knows it, and isn't afraid to use it to his advantage. Dark hair, a perfectly tailored black coat draped over his shoulders and sharp features softened by an easy, approachable smile. His eyes, though, there's something too intense about them, too knowing. But before I can fully register it, he looks away, as if he wasn't staring my way at all.

Moments later, there's movement in my peripheral vision. When I glance up again, I'm caught off guard to see he's standing a few feet away, holding a coffee cup, and an effortless smile on his face.

"Sorry," he says smoothly. "I was sitting over there, and I couldn't help but notice..." His gaze drops to my laptop for a moment before flicking back up to me. "Are you writing a novel?" His smile widens, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I've always admired people who can actually sit down and write. I keep telling myself I'll start one day." He lets out a soft laugh, then gestures toward the empty seat across from me. "Would you mind if I sit for a bit? Just until the rain lets up." He pauses, tilting his head, "Unless you prefer to be alone. I get that too."

Despite the surprise and without time to mentally prepare for the company of a stranger, I quickly slip into chameleon mode, instinctively adjusting to match his energy.

"Yeah, I'm entering a writing competition so I need to write a 40,000 word novella before May," I laugh lightly, gesturing to the other chair.

"Forty thousand words?" He smiles, setting his cup down and sliding into the seat. "That's impressive, and here I was, feeling proud of the three-sentence email I finally managed to send this morning. What's your novella about?" he asks, taking a sip of his coffee but never breaking eye contact. "Wait, let me guess." He studies me thoughtfully. "Fantasy? Maybe something with a darker twist?"

I widen my eyes, which makes his smile tilt upward, "I'm right, aren't I?" he asks.

"That's a good guess," I say with suspicion, but he moves on casually.

"I'm Azrael, by the way," he offers his hand across the table, "Figure I should introduce myself before I start pestering you about your characters and plot twists."

"I'm Nadia," I grin, shaking his hand, "and yeah, fantasy romances are my thing, both to read and write. This time I'm going a little wild and bringing unicorns into the mix, but I had to choose a specific prompt for the challenge and... unicorns are definitely a fun challenge when they're typically seen as childish."

Azrael's holds his grip just a little longer than necessary, but when he releases my hand, his smile widens. "Nadia," he repeats, "It suits you." He leans back in his chair, but his eyes don't leave mine. "I don't think unicorns are childish, they're just... misunderstood. People focus on the soft, magical side, but in a lot of older myths, they were dangerous and untouchable. They'd only let someone pure enough get close." There's a sharp flicker in his expression, but his smile comes back in an instant. "I like that you're taking something people overlook and giving it depth. Wild, sure, but bold. I bet that says something about you, doesn't it? Wanting to find meaning in things others dismiss?"

It's subtle, but the way he says it makes my heart race, like he's seeing straight through the surface-level small talk, into something deeper. He picks up his coffee again but doesn't take a sip, fingers idly tracing the rim of the cup. "So, are you doing this competition for fun, or is there something more to it? Something you're trying to prove?"

The nervous energy in me grows a bit, wondering why he's so interested in talking about my writing, and going this deep into it at that, but I guess I'll bite. "Mostly for fun, and extra motivation. Usually I start writing stories and am super into them in the beginning, but then I think of a new idea and the first one never gets finished. Fingers crossed that with the quick deadline I'll see this one through."

"Ah, the classic 'shiny new idea' curse," he smiles, "That's the real enemy of every creative, isn't it? You get so caught up in something new, something exciting, and then the old idea feels... hollow." His fingers tap the side of his coffee cup in a slow, rhythmic beat, "But I get it. It's hard to commit to something when there's always that nagging thought in the back of your head, what if there's something better? What if I'm not choosing the right path?" His gaze sharpens momentarily before his smile returns, "But hey, fingers crossed for you. This time could be different."

He glances out the window, where the rain has started to let up, before turning his attention back to me. "You know," he adds, his tone dropping just slightly, "I like that you're doing this for yourself. A lot of people don't have that kind of passion. They settle, stop dreaming." His gaze lingers again, "But you... you're not like that. You want something more, don't you?"

His words feel heavy, like he's reaching into thoughts I've had but never said out loud. "Thanks," I laugh nervously, "Honestly I suppose I only recently started dreaming again. It's easy to get busy with life and stop thinking about yourself, isn't it?" I ask, trying to turn the conversation back on him to give myself a break from the attention.

"Exactly. It's so easy to get caught up in all of it. Work, expectations, routines. One day you wake up and realize you're just going through the motions, right? Like you're living, but not really alive. But then there's that moment when you sit down and think, 'What do I actually want?' Not what others expect, not what's safe or logical. Just... what would make me feel alive again?" He pauses. "You said you only recently started dreaming again. What was it that brought you back to it? What made you realize you'd lost that part of yourself?" he asks.

I purse my lips, letting the memory surface. "I guess it's always been there, lingering in the back of my mind. Sometime last year, I finally packed up my computer, left the house, and found a quiet cafe where I could sit without any distractions. It kind of reignited everything, and now my mind is constantly switching between around ten fantasy worlds, building them up and writing them down," I laugh.

He grins, "It's easy to draw one's self into fantasy like that, not just for the escapism, but because, deep down, we feel like something's missing in this world. Like there should be more, more passion, more meaning, more connection."

His words land heavier than they should, because yeah, I agree. His eyes soften, though the intensity in them remains. I'm not sure what to say. But, his smile tilts upward, "But hey, it's good you found your way back, right? That spark. Most people don't." He lifts his coffee cup in a small, mock toast. "To dreamers finding their way back to dreaming."

I take a breath and clink my cup against his. "To dreamers," I smile, "So what are your dreams then? Or are you still figuring that out?"

"Dreams can be tricky. Sometimes, you think you want one thing, but once you get it, you realize it wasn't enough. Or worse, it was never what you needed at all. But I guess if I had to answer honestly..." He pauses, drumming his fingers against the cup. "I think I want what most people want. Connection. To feel like I'm not just passing through life unnoticed. I know how that sounds," he lets out a small laugh, "some mysterious guy at a cafe giving you the 'I want connection' line. But it's true. And you? Do you feel seen? Or do you still feel like you're waiting for something more?"

"Seen? Not particularly I suppose? But at the same time I don't usually make an effort to be seen. I'd rather discover other people's secrets than give my own away," I joke lightly.

"Ah," he says, eyes glinting with something darker beneath the charm, "so you're the observer. The one who watches from the sidelines, picking up on all the little details others miss." His gaze sharpens, "But you know the thing about people like that? Eventually, someone comes along who sees you, whether you want them to or not." He pauses. "I get it, though, secrets are easier when they belong to someone else. Safer. Less risky."

"I guess so," I nod, a small smile playing at my lips, but now I'm definitely feeling more guarded. It feels like I need to be careful with my answers, like I'm talking to someone straight from the Behavioral Analysis Unit from the show Criminal Minds. Either way, he's read into way too much about me, and I still know next to nothing about him. I make another attempt to turn the tables. "You say you want connection. Does that mean you don't feel seen, or you want to be seen by as many as possible?"

Azrael lets out a soft chuckle, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "That's an interesting distinction. Most people would assume it's about numbers, being admired, known, wanted by everyone, but it's not about that. I've been seen by a lot of people," he admits, "But there's a difference between being seen and being understood. You can have a hundred people looking at you, wanting pieces of you, but still feel completely alone. I guess what I want is someone who sees past the surface. Past the carefully curated answers. But that's probably a lot for a first conversation, huh?" He chuckles, lightening the mood.

I grin, taking another sip, "Not at all. I've never been one to open myself up to others so quickly, so it's always refreshing to see others do so."

"It's funny," he murmurs, "The ones who are hardest to understand are usually the ones I want to understand the most." My stomach tightens at his words. He says it so effortlessly, like it's not a loaded statement. "I get it, though," he adds softly, "It's easier to put up walls and keep people at arm's length. Less risk of getting hurt, right? But then you meet someone, and suddenly it feels like... maybe it's safe to let a few cracks show. Even if it scares the hell out of you." The words feel way too pointed, but his delivery is so carefully measured that it feels almost natural.

Then, as if realizing he's gone too far, he leans back, offering a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "Sorry, again, I'm terrible at small talk." He gestures around the café. "I'm sure most people would've just commented on the weather." There's no real regret in his tone though, if anything, there's a flicker of satisfaction behind his eyes. "I guess I'm just really glad I ran into you today."

I shake myself off mentally, "You're apologizing to the person who's terrible at conversation in general? I'm glad too, and glad you didn't just ask about the weather."

"Well, lucky me then," he says smoothly, but edged with something that makes my heart race. "You're easier to talk to than you think, you know? I should probably let you get back to your writing before I derail your whole novella, but..." He glances out the window, "Would you want to meet here again sometime?"

I'm slightly stunned, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to start making some new friends here. Having people drop into my lap now is definitely much easier than making an effort to put myself out there later. "Sure!"

"Perfect," he pulls out a pen from the inside pocket of his coat and grabs a napkin off the table, scribbling onto it. "Here's my number," he says, sliding the napkin toward me. His handwriting is flawless, almost too neat. "Text me if you want to set a time." He glances once more at my laptop, then softly back at me, "I'm really glad I came in today." I return his smile as he stands with his cup and turns to leave.

The bell above the door jingles as he exits into the now-clear evening, but somehow, the space he occupied still feels full. The napkin with his number sits in front of me with his name scrawled in perfect ink: Azrael. And just below the number, a simple line:

"For dreamers who finally want to be seen."

I huff out a laugh. Am I the dreamer or am I dreaming? It's too perfect. Too tailored. But somehow it still makes my heart race.

Later that evening, after the buzz of the cafe has fully faded into the quiet of my apartment, I pull out my phone and the napkin again, typing out a message, erasing it twice before settling on something casual.

"Hey, it's Nadia. I'll take you up on that coffee meet up sometime."

Simple. Light. I hit send.

Soon after, my phone buzzes.

"How about tomorrow? Same time and place, but this time I'm buying the coffee." There's a pause before another message comes through. "And I want unicorn updates in return, of course. Can't forget the important stuff."

"See you then," I text back, smiling.

I stare at the screen for a moment before locking my phone, shaking my head with a soft laugh. How is this even happening? But deep down, there's that little spark that makes me wonder if my own story is just beginning.